Murmured Prayers
by ancazur
Summary: L is gone and Near has been named successor. What now? Mello turn to the only thing - and the only person - he can believe in.


_ ...forgive us our trespasses,_

_ as we forgive those who trespass against us;_

_ and lead us not into temptation,_

_ but deliver us from evil._

Mello sighed, bowing his head further.

_ Our Father, Who art in Heaven..._

The cathedral was nearly empty. There were few sinners occupying its pews in prayer; confessional doors gaped open like the mouths of hungry, needy children. The kneeler under Mello's knees was worn, weathered down from centuries of souls praying their way into Heaven. He clutched the rosary harder, leaning his forehead on the pew in front of him. Tears dripped onto his clenched fist.

_ ...look down upon the suffering souls in purgatory._

_Remember not their offenses and negligences,_

_but be mindful of Thy loving mercy..._

He lifted his head, swiping at the corners of his eyes with his fist. His gaze wandered the cathedral, its carved columns and the tinted sunlight through stained glass. The scent of ancient wood filling his lungs as he breathed in deeply. He should have brought someone with him. He never cared much for sympathy, but today sucked. Everything he had trained for, his entire life... there must be a reason God hadn't allowed him to be successor, but he couldn't see past his anger. Why, of all times, did God have to play with him _now_?

_ Cleanse them of their sins and fulfill their ardent desires_

_that they may be made worthy to behold Thee face to face in Thy glory..._

_Shit_. This wasn't doing anything; he still felt rotten. He folded his arms and hid his face in the crook of his elbow. The rosary beads pressed hard against his temple.

"Mello?"

He didn't have to look up; the voice was as familiar as his own. "You shouldn't be here." His reply was muffled.

He felt the kneeler bend under the added weight, then a denim leg sidled up to his thigh, a shoulder to his shoulder. He should have pushed away but his body radiated a comfortable warmth; priests be damned if they noticed.

"God, please forgive Mello for being a douche, and I pray that he stops acting like a little girl and shares all his troubles with his good friend Matt."

"Shut the fuck up, Matt."

"Now, now. Is that the kind of language we use in God's house?"

He peeked out from his folded arms, shooting an icy glare from beneath his fringe. The rosary had left perfect, round imprints on his skin. Matt smiled, playfully nudging his shoulder, but he received only a grumble in return. Mello rose abruptly, deliberately deserting him in the pew, and walked alone toward the prayer candles. Matt watched as he gazed up at the shrine with arms hanging limply at his sides, the rosary roped through his fingers. With a heavy sigh, he stood to join him.

Mello dropped a coin into the donation box, then lit a votive in the center of the array. The matchstick hovered over the newly-lighted candle and they stood motionless, watching it slowly fizzle out.

"Why bother?" Matt asked, his voice low.

"With what?"

He spread an arm over the candles. "This."

Mello jammed the matchstick back into its holder. "If you don't get it by now, you won't." He made the sign of the cross over his body, then stared at his candle—_L's_ candle—and felt a tearing in his chest. Mello had basically _handed_ the successorship to Near, so why did he feel like such a piece of shit? It was his own fault he was looked over; even _he_ had admitted that Near was better for the job.

He suddenly felt a fingertip trace the inside of his arm, a smooth motion toward his wrist, which sent a warm shudder up his spine. The priests knew, of course; he couldn't leave anything out of confession. The same priest was likely in the same box he had occupied, Mello's crumpled tissues littering the confessional floor. Salt tracks were still stiff on his cheeks. _You must repent_, the priest had said, _renounce this life of sin._ So why was this the only thing that felt right?

Mello shoved his hands into his pockets. "Come on," he said. "Not here. You know that."

Matt shrugged and crossed his arms. "I guess." He looked away in shame, not for himself, but for these asinine rules. His eyes followed the lines of the high, curved walls, resting on a stained glass window overhead. The crucifixion: Jesus's bowed head, blood dripping down his body like exposed veins. _What did _He_ believe?_ he thought, staring at the Savior's bare feet. He leaned over, voice breathy against Mello's ear. "How long do you stand here?"

"You're an idiot." He jerked his head away. "Can't you have a little respect, just once?"

"Sorry, man." Matt dropped his head, his chin brushing Mello's shoulder. "It was an honest question."

"I..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Shit." Mello scanned the area to confirm no one was around—this particular shrine was empty, save for them—but he lowered his voice regardless. "You stay as long as you want. You know I've got stuff to figure out. And L—"

"I know you're pissed about that. You don't have to tell me."

"Not at L." Mello fished another coin from his pocket for the donation box, listening for the click of metal on metal. He grasped Matt's wrist—Matt's eyes widened in surprise—and pried open his fist, pressing a matchstick into his hand.

"I don't know what to do with this," he said, staring in awe at his outstretched palm.

"Light a candle. Say a prayer. It's not that hard."

Matt awkwardly clenched the matchstick, gripping it like a sword. Tentatively, he dipped it into the flame of L's candle, then lit the votive directly below it. He hesitated.

"Can I do more than one?"

"Sure, I guess."

Matt slowly lit the remaining seven votives around the center. It was strangely symbolic, this cluster of flames in a dark display, and he smiled after lighting the final one. He shook out the matchstick to extinguish it. "That's for everyone who doesn't know about his death. They'd probably want to do this, too."

Mello stole a glance at his profile, but he had already bowed his head. With folded hands and eyes closed, he murmured so softly that his words were inaudible. It was unlikely that Matt knew the prayers, but so what? Wouldn't God listen anyway? Mello gripped his shoulder with one hand, counting the rosary with the other. _Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit… _Matt lifted his head, waited for Mello to stop fidgeting with the rosary, then they nodded in silent agreement.

They exited through the vast doors of the cathedral, shielding their eyes to the daylight. Typical that today, of all days, was the first in weeks it hadn't been gray and dreary. Matt had descended the stone steps but Mello stopped, staring into the cloudless sky. With a grunt he collapsed onto the steps, his blond hair a curtain before his fallen face.

Matt trudged back up to sit beside him, tapping a cigarette out of its pack. "What now?"

Without having to look, Mello's fingertips found the inside of Matt's wrist. They crept slowly downward, tracing patterns on his palm, before their fingers interlocked. Matt squeezed his hand as he lifted his head, blowing tendrils of smoke from his lips.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**__ I'm not Catholic, so forgive me if I have any details/terminology wrong. Please correct me and I'll fix it._


End file.
